


DOWN AND OUT

by APendingThought



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt Glenn, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Influenza, Sick Character, glenn is a trooper, hershel is Santa Claus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8642431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APendingThought/pseuds/APendingThought
Summary: Inspired by the scene in Season 4. Poor Glenn wants to help but the flu has him beat. Hershel doesn't judge. He just wants to set things right.





	

He found him collapsed on the catwalk, as though halfway on his way to somewhere, exhaustion had gotten there first. Sick as a dog but fighting the good fight. Kid could barely see straight and here he was making a show of getting up. They both knew he was down. No two ways about it.

Hershel didn’t argue, waited until Glenn sank back to the floor again with a panted groan and a curse. He knew better. Pushing rationality on someone pushing 102 degrees was moot. Men were last to know when they were licked. He’d do whatever he meant to do whether Hershel screamed at him or not. Dehydration would knock him out for sure if the congestion didn’t get him. 

Facts wouldn’t help the kid admit it, though. What were facts in Hell, anyway?

Glenn hid his face behind sweaty bangs, gasping to prove he could get in any deep breaths at all. His round face was pale as a Harvest moon, glowing in the rank air with sweat. 

“Oughta be resting in yer cell.” Hershel dropped to one knee.

His future son in law smiled bitterly, too worn out and pissed off at himself.

Hershel hummed by way of response but said nothing. The back of his hand lingered on his hot forehead, covertly timing the unsteady rise and fall of his respiration. Truth be told, that concerned him more than Glenn’s soaring temperature. Sooner or later there’d be blood in his sputum and when that started, he’d have to rely on artificial support. Intubating a conscious patient was always a risk. Already sick and out of their minds with fever, all patients fought the tube—increasing their chances of hurting themselves and making his job harder. But what could he do? He had no drugs to knock them out safely and without brutally forcing a sterile intubation down their airway, they’d choke on their own fluids.

Hershel shuddered at the thought. Maybe letting them blue up and go would be kinder.

He watched Glenn struggle on his next inhale and prayed it would not come to that.

God help him if Maggie were here. She’d raise the roof seeing him like this. 

Gently he grasped the thin wrist and glanced down at his watch. Too fast but sickness plus the stress still put him in range. Heart working overtime to make up for reduced oxygen. The rate was comparable to others in primary stages of whatever putrid hell this was. Hershel gave his wrist a little squeeze in the faintest hope it might encourage him but it didn’t erase the listless defeat on the kid’s face. Hershel finished up his exam quick. Felt around neck and under jaw for the swollen lymph he knew would be there. Depressed the skin under his eyes to check for iron levels, the conjunctiva was pale.

Glenn swallowed and grimaced. Hershel didn’t need to be sick himself to know what he felt. He’d watched dozens of sick people all day do the same thing. 

“Got something for ya.” He said.

He measured out a dose of the elderberry tonic into the last of the sterile cups from the thermos strapped to his back. It wasn’t the best remedy, hell it wasn’t even half as effective as good old fashioned aspirin but it was better than the nothing they had and at least it would keep him hydrated. Glenn took the steaming cup with shaking hands and drank when Hershel bade him to, closing his eyes in relief at the warm liquid. On his first distribution round, Hershel had added nothing to the brew but when the little ones started gagging and choking on the raw bitterness of the wild berry, he went and dumped in every sugar packet he could find in the rec room to make it go down easier.

“Tastes like shit but it’ll keep your heart pumping.” He said by way of apology.

He might have guessed Glenn to be tight-lipped about the taste. He was Asian, Hershel figured, his momma had already plied him with enough nasty-tasting homemade brews growing up. The adage of the worse it tastes, better it was clearly ingrained in kids early over in China or wherever the hell he came from. Glenn drained the cup with Hershel’s help when his grip became too weak to keep it steady, droplets trickling down his chin and neck. That done, he sank back against the iron railing, focused solely on breathing in and out. 

“Rest easy, now.” Hershel kept his words gentle but firm enough to get through to him. “Save your strength. You’ll beat this.”

Glenn coughed on his laugh which exploded quickly into a violent choke. Hershel couldn’t stop himself from letting his professional exterior slip, wincing at the grating sound. He reached out a hand and rubbed the kid’s back, hoping to break up some of the blockage in his lungs. 

He was so damn useless.

He’d give anything for his bag, equipment to more closely monitor stages of the disease as it presented. The early symptoms weren’t a mystery to unravel. He didn’t need to place an ear on Glenn’s chest to hear the crackle of fluid whenever the kid wheezed on inhale. He didn’t need a thermometer to tell him that his temperature was high and still climbing. A stethoscope would have told him what he already knew—jacked up heart and blocked bronchial tubes. 

Glenn peered out at him from glassy eyes, too drained even to rage.

“You’re all alone…” Glenn rasped. “…with so many. I can help.”

“You’re tired.” Hershel said evenly. “You should lie down. Need to rest, I ain't letting you up until your vitals even out.”

“I’m alright.” Glenn insisted though his pale face and bloodshot eyes said differently. “Can’t…lie down...hard to...”

Hershel looked around, spying a pile of rolled burlap supply bags. He slipped them behind Glenn’s head and shoulders. They were the closest call to comfortable this Hell hole could produce but they suited. Propped up so his lungs would have less work to do, he felt the kid’s trembling muscles ease up a little.  
Glenn’s eyes closed but he did not sleep. Rest or the pretense of it would have to do. Hershel sighed, bone weary beyond reckoning but his task at hand more important than every one of them. He stood up to go back on his rounds, would check back on him a little later. See if the tea knocked down the fever any.

He didn’t try to stop him when the young man latched shakily onto the iron bar of the stairs in a futile bid to rise. His muscles shook with the effort and he sank back to the ground. 

“This sucks.” He muttered.

Hershel took up his coolant rag, folded it and held it firmly against his forehead. From the way the kid’s body sagged at his touch, his misery giving way to sheer exhaustion, Hershel knew he ‘d done the right thing. “Keep this on your forehead. Sweat it out. Doctor’s orders.”

Glenn swallowed and nodded.

“Just breathe. That’s yer job. Breathe and try to rest.”

“I-I... can help.” Glenn’s eyes closed, chest heaving, fighting to stay awake. 

Hershel patted his shoulder. “I know, son. I know.” He stood up with a creak and a groan, gathering up his shoulder bag. “I’ll be back in a few to check on ya. If you’re feeling up to it, you can help me on my rounds.”

“Thank you.” Glenn whispered, eyes closed and already drifting. “Thank you.”


End file.
